


Catalyst

by inlovewithnight



Category: Battlestar Galactica (2003)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-04
Updated: 2006-08-04
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:42:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight





	Catalyst

This is a book.

Uncle Justus puts it in Tom's hands and Tom looks up at him, puzzled. Dad used to give him books-- books about heroes and magic and monsters, or Viper pilots slashing through the sky. But Dad got pressed into the workforce bound for Picon, and Tom came to stay with his aunt and uncle, and all he's heard since is how times are hard and they don't need another mouth to feed and he shouldn't expect to be spoiled.

But this is a book, being given to him, and Uncle Justus looks like he ought to be grateful for it.

It has a plain brown cover, not bright and colorful like the books Dad gave him, and the text is small and dense. "Is it scripture?" he asks, because it looks more like the holy books than anything else. He doesn't see the names of the gods when he scans the pages, though. _Freedom_ and _oppresion_ and _individual rights versus collective responsibility_ and _catalysts for the process of social change_ \--

"It's _not_ scripture," he answers himself, glancing at his uncle. "What is it?"

"The last great work of Geoffrey Atavis. Philosophy. Government. Economics. Everything." Uncle Justus taps the cover. "All of the answers. How to change everything, bring freedom to everyone, let everyone decide for themselves how to live. It's all right here."

If Tom's dad had been able to decide for himself, he wouldn't have left. But Sagittaron doesn't get to choose anything. Sagittaron does what it's told. "If all the answers are here, why are things still the same?"

"People aren't listening yet. We need to find somebody to yell louder." Uncle Justus moves away, leaving Tom with the book. "Read it carefully. Learn it well. Maybe you can help, someday."

Tom sets the book on the table, next to his scripture. He'll read a chapter of each every night. That seems like a good plan.

But the brown book is so much fatter. Maybe he should start it now, so he can catch up.  
***  
This is a building.

It has a name, yes, chosen from history as written by the powerful. But it has no mind, no heart, no soul. It is an empty shell. Bringing it down to dust wil make a great noise and serve as a great symbol. People will hear the voices of the downtrodden crying out, they will see the rubble on the news, and they will _think_.

Tom is sure of that. His plan is perfect, and it will be successful, and it will make the rest of the colonies shake off their overfed, self-satisfied slumber. His actions will be the catalyst, the trigger that changes it all.

He settles down in his chair, in the empty apartment across the street from the building that will fall at sundown. He's done all of his planning here, sketched out every step, made all of his preparations. And when the sun sets and the government building is empty, he'll press the button that sends the signal and lights up the sky with his message.

Not for a few hours yet, though. Tom reaches for his bag, pulling out his volume of Atavis and his scripture. Both are well-worn, if well-cared for, the margins spidered with his thoughts, crossed out and changed many times over the years. He thinks he might write a book of his own one day, when his voice is heard across the Colonies. Maybe an updated, annotated volume of Atavis, one that includes the importance of the gods and true, uncorrupted faith.

Or maybe he'll write something entirely his own. He has things to say. Ideas. Beliefs that could change _everything_ , if people will only listen.

He'll make them listen. He'll yell louder, like Uncle Justus said. And it all starts tonight.

He sets the book aside and moves to the window again. Just a little longer. And then he'll make some noise.  
***  
This is a cell.

He watches the guards move by on the other side of the bars and he smiles, a broad and mocking grin that he knows must crawl right under their skins. But they can't lay a finger on him, not on Tom Zarek, the hero of the crushed and brutalized and suffering. He's too high-profile for the usual punishments and beatings and petty little ploys of the Colonial penal wards.

He can bring the media in with a _snap_. It's astonishing. There's a dictation machine in his cell-- some lawyer on Tauron sued three different government agencies to establish his right to have it. The guards can't keep the tapes from going out, not unless they contain specific instructions for further violence. And they don't; they contain only Tom's thoughts. His beliefs. His ideas.

The substance of his book.

He sends the tapes to Uncle Justus, old now, and impressed enough by his nephew that Tom knows he'll see the tapes transcribed faithfully, without altering a single word. He'll see the book published, see Tom Zarek's words spread everywhere, bringing fire and light across the twelve worlds.

He has a voice now, one that's heard loud and clear. His trial was the only story in the Colonies, the only thing to talk about. They had to offer him clemency if he showed remorse, just to stop the rioting. All of those people in the streets, _his_ people, screaming together loudly enough that the government had to ask Tom to make them stop.

He did miscalculate. He knows that. He thought that refusing to apologize for the people killed (the building not _quite_ empty, the passers-by when it fell-- but the dead were of Sagittaron, they would _want_ their deaths to matter) would make the riots burn brighter and bring on the last great sweeping change. But the government spun the story and lied and silenced the people all over again. He should have known.

He's still there, though. Still has a voice. And he _will_ be heard.  
***  
This is a world.

Not a paradise, not a new Kobol, not any of the worlds they lost in the attack. But a world that is theirs. New Caprica. A chance to start over.

He had thought it would be one that they could build in a new fashion, without the injustices of the Colonies. He knew that not _all_ of the ideas of his younger self could be realized. He is no longer so naive. But he had thought, maybe...

Every day on the new world brings rain and cold and dirt, and a deeper realization that some things don't change. The desire of the powerful to keep their power, for one. He watches Gaius Baltar behind his desk and admits to himself that even at his youngest and most stupid, he would've seen that this man is no revolutionary. Baltar is entirely and purely a devotee of the status quo.

He sleeps in a solid, comfortable suite on a modified cruiser, while infants die in the tents and the voices of others howl for justice. Tom Zarek never raises his voice anymore. He negotiates, he argues, he placates, but these days, he does not yell.

He wonders sometimes when things changed. When he changed. All of those years in prison, maybe, once he was forgotten. Faster than he'd expected, the people moved on, and time silenced him. His book went out, was banned, lived only in whispers. That didn't satisfy him. Whispers didn't change anything.

Maybe he changed when everything else did, when the world ended, when another stupid young man (not as naive as he once was, but not as jaded as he's become) gave him a second chance and a second freedom. Maybe he changed when he got a taste of power.

He doesn't know. And his books are long gone. But he still has his ideas, and his mind, and the unshakeable belief that anything-- everything-- could change tomorrow. If someone decides to make it so.  



End file.
